


When Life Gives You Cranberries...

by Thilien



Series: 31 Days of Ineffables Ficlets [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Anathema Has Cranberry-based Issues, Crowley and Anathema Device are Friends (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), F/M, Ficlet, Fluff and Humor, Prompt Fill, christmas cooking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21673837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thilien/pseuds/Thilien
Summary: '"You’re here!” Anathema cries, pointing at Aziraphale with a slightly manic expression on her face. “Oh, thank the...well, thank someone! You’ll be able to help with this!”Before he can summon a reply, Aziraphale is being marched unceremoniously into the cottage’s kitchen. A kitchen which, to all intents and purposes, now appears to resemble a minor war zone.'In which a witch tries to impress her future mother-in-law, many cranberries are sacrificed in the process, and a demon turns out to have a surprising talent.This little slice of utter fluff and nonsense is my prompt fill for day four of Drawlight's 31 Days of Ineffables. Prompt: Cranberries.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 Days of Ineffables Ficlets [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559806
Comments: 8
Kudos: 112





	When Life Gives You Cranberries...

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to the wonderful Drawlight for coming up with the prompt list. 
> 
> Needless to say, I don't own any of this - just borrowing and playing with it for a while. All the good stuff belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchell and to the marvellously talented people who bought the book to life so wonderfully for us all.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are VERY much appreciated. Thank you for reading - I had a LOT of fun writing this little piece of nonsense so I hope you enjoy! x

**When Life Gives You Cranberries…**

As they walk up to the door of Jasmine Cottage, Aziraphale is alarmed to see smoke pouring out of the kitchen window.

Before he and Crowley reach the cottage door however, it is flung open and a billow of blue skirts emerges from the smoky interior clutching a smouldering saucepan. The acrid smell of burnt food fills the air as Anathema, glasses askew and hair tumbling wildly out of her bun, unceremoniously upends a gloopy red offering into the outside bin. Turning towards her visitors, brushing wayward strands of hair out of her eyes as she does so, Aziraphale notices that she has smears of bright red across her face.

“Having trouble with something?” Crowley deadpans, grinning at the witch’s resulting scowl. 

To Aziraphale’s immense surprise, the demon has grown rather fond of ‘Book Girl’ (as Crowley insists on calling her), although their friendship seems to largely revolve around being catty to each other, a shared appreciation of _The Golden Girls_ , and occasionally getting drunk together. 

“You’re here!” Anathema cries, pointing at Aziraphale with a slightly manic expression on her face. “Oh, thank the...well, thank _someone_! You’ll be able to help with this!”

Before he can summon a reply, Aziraphale is being marched unceremoniously into the cottage’s kitchen. A kitchen which, to all intents and purposes, now appears to resemble a minor war zone. Pans littered the worktop, their contents either gloopy red masses of indeterminate origin or charred cinders of something that had, presumably, once been food. There were bright red splashes across many of the cupboard doors and it looked as if someone, presumably Anathema, has exploded an entire packet of sugar across most of the kitchen table. In the centre of the chaos, a small mountain of cranberries was piled next to a cookbook, the open page covered in sticky red fingerprints. 

“My dear, what on earth…”

Anathema must have clocked the look of mild panic and utter confusion on the angel’s face because she slows down, although the manic glint doesn’t leave her eyes.

“I’m trying to cook the cranberries. But I can’t. Because I don’t cook. Like, ever. But Newt’s Mum is really into it and I wanted to make a good impression and we got talking about jam and chutney and things. And I said I really like jam, and she thought I meant making jam not eating it and she gave me loads of fruit and berries from their garden. And now she’s coming to visit tomorrow and is going to expect to have some homemade jam. Or jelly. Or chutney. Or...or _something_!”

For one brief, terrifying moment, Aziraphale thinks that the witch might just burst into tears. He glances around, desperately hoping Crowley has followed them into the cottage and is on hand to step in. To his surprise, the demon is on the other side of the kitchen holding one of the pans of gloopy, not quite set, mess. Prodding the mass inside experimentally, the demon then proceeds to lick the end of his finger.

“Not enough sugar” he pronounces sagely.

Aziraphale isn’t sure whether his or Anathema’s jaw hits the floor first. Both of them turn to stare at the demon. Crowley, all cool insouciance, simply returns their looks of shock with a shrug of his shoulders.

“What? I’ve made preserves before, alright?”

“But...when?...How?...” 

To Anathema's credit, she regains her composure quickly, marching over to Crowley and grabbing the pan out of his hand.

“Show me how to fix it.”

**_Later_ **

Several hours later, once Anathema has finished cooing over a batch of perfectly set and gently spiced cranberry chutney - and once she has been persuaded to let an increasingly uncomfortable demon go from an enveloping hug of gratitude - they are on their way back to the bookshop. A bookshop that both of them increasingly refer to as ‘home’.

Aziraphale is silent on the way back, mulling over the day in his head.

“Everything alright angel?”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale looks up, the demon’s voice breaking him from his reverie.

Crowley is eyeing him nervously, clearly fretting over whether he’s done something to upset the angel.

“Oh, it’s nothing my dear,” Aziraphale says soothingly, reaching out to fuss at the demon’s elbow. “It’s just...I didn’t...well, you’ve never...you don’t cook at home.”

Given that he’s a demon, Crowley is remarkably prone to blushing. It is one of the many things that Aziraphale loves about him. This particular blush doesn’t quite reach his ears but Aziraphale thinks it is adorable nonetheless. 

“Just because I don’t cook doesn’t mean I can’t, angel,” Crowley mutters. “Who else do you think made Warlock all his favourites? The kid was such a fussy eater when he was a toddler. And who else would have knocked up chicken broth at three in the morning when he was sick?”

Aziraphale thinks his heart might burst. He knows, of course, that Crowley has always had a soft spot for children, and for Warlock in particular. Though Aziraphale had done his best, children really weren’t his forte and the boy had always preferred the company of his beloved nanny to that of the friendly household gardener. To spend evenings working out how to tempt a fussy toddler, or stirring up broth in the middle of the night for a small, feverish, and miserable boy, all the while trying to encourage the same small boy to indulge every idle whim or mischievous impulse. It’s such a...well, such a very _Crowley_ thing to do. 

“Oh, _Crowley_ …”

Aziraphale is prevented from expressing his adoration by the demon’s yellow-eyed glare.

“Don’t. It’s not a _thing_ , angel. I cook. I can cook things. A bit. Sometimes.”

Aziraphale can see he’s onto a losing battle. Getting Crowley to accept his own enjoyment in the more pleasant side of his nature is a long and ongoing process. So instead, he tries a different tack.

“Well...you’ve never cooked for me.”

To his surprise, the demon looks mildly startled.

“Would you...would you want me to?” 

Aziraphale thinks it over. He can hear the hesitation in Crowley’s voice. It is so _new_ , this thing they have. This freedom to spend the day together, return home to the same place, curl up beside each other in the evening, fall into bed together at night. Neither of them are yet quite used to the sheer, ordinary domesticity of it all. 

“I mean,” the demon continues, “it’s just...well, it’s just everyday food, you know. Nothing fancy. I’m not a _chef_. Won’t be like what we have at The Ritz or anything-”

Aziraphale cuts him off before Crowley’s mind runs away with itself and he talks himself out of the offer.

“I think I’d enjoy that my dear. Very much.”

Crowley looks over at him, yellow eyes large and wide and full of 6,000 years of love that can finally _finally_ be said out loud. Then he nods slowly, as if making a decision, as if settling into the idea that this might be something else they can do together. And Aziraphale reaches out his hand to caress the demon’s knee across the car and to reassure him that yes, this is it. This is them, finally, together. Doing stupid, silly, everyday things like cooking food and visiting friends and reading books curled up together on the sofa. And heading home. 


End file.
